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Number 6 



March 16, 189 6 



ENOCH ARDEN 

AND OTHER POEMS 

BY 

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 



SELECTED FOR USE IN SCHOOLS 
WITH INTRODUCTORY AND EXPLANATORY NOTES 



I 



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STANDARD LITERATURE SERIES 

ENOCH ARDEN '*** 

AND OTHER POEMS 



ALFKED LOED TENNYSON 



SELECTED FOR USE IN SCHOOLS. WITH AN 
INTRODUCTION AND EXPLANATORY NOTES 



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I APR 161R9«) 



NEW YORK AND NEW ORLEANS 
UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY 



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COPTRIQHT, 1896, BY 

UNIVERSITY PUBLISHING COMPANY 



Press of J. J. Little & Co. 
Astor Place, New York 



INTRODUCTION. 



A volume of selections from the great representative English poet of 
the century, embodying much of his choicest and most characteristic 
work, may fitly be included among the issues of the "Standard Litera- 
ture Series." Tennyson's writings worthily represent his age, and mani- 
fest many of the highest qualities of the thought and art of his time. 
Not only is his rank very high among the poets of his era, but he is also 
unsurpassed in the variety, interest, and charm of his work. 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES. 

Tennyson's life is eventful only in connection with his writings. 
These, as they successively appeared, are the milestone marks in the as- 
cending path of fame. The poet was born August 6, 1809, at Somersby 
Rectory, Lincolnshire, and his youth was passed amid such scenes as he 
has described in the pleasing verse of his earlier poems. His father, 
himself somewhat of a poet and artist, as well as a fine scholar, was the 
village rector ; and Alfred was one of twelve children, seven of whom 
were sons. Two of the latter, Frederick and Charles (afterwards Charles 
Tennyson Turner), had poetic gifts ; Charles, later on, joining Alfred 
in the publication of Poems of Two Brothers. The poet's mother was a 
woman of sweet and tender disposition. Alfred received his early train- 
ing at the hands of his father, and, in due time, proceeded to Trinity 
College, Cambridge, where, he won the chancellor's medal for the best 
English poem of his year. The subject was the rather uninspiring one 
of " Timbuctoo." At college, young Tennyson made the acquaintance of 
many men who attained fame in later life, among whom were Monckton 
Milnes (Lord Houghton), Dean Alford, Frederick Denison Maurice, and, 
most endeared of all, Arthur Henry Hallam, son of the historian, whose 
memory he has immortalized in In Memoriam. 

In 1830, appeared his Poems chiefly Lyrical, containing Mariana, 
Claribel, Lilian, The Owl, etc., experiments in contemplative verse, 
overloaded, however, with ornament. Two years later, came a new col- 
lection, entitled Poems, showing a ripening of Tennyson's powers and a 
further development of his art. The volume included Lady Clare, A 
Dream of Fair Women, The May Queen, New Year's Eve, The Miller's 
Daughter, The Lotus Eaters, and other finished pieces of great rhythmi- 



4 INTRODUCTION. 

cal beauty. Not a little of his work was at the time subjected to un- 
favorable criticism ; but in spite of this he continued to write and seek 
new and wider fields for his now rapidly developing poetic gifts. 

In 1842, appeared two volumes, entitled Poems by Alfred Tennyson, 
which now won for him high rank as a poet of the first order. Many 
of these were new, though some were revisions of earlier productions. 
Among the former were Morte d' Arthur (now incorporated with the 
Idylls of the King), Dora, The Lord of Burleigh, The Talking Oak, 
Locksley Hall, St. Simeon Stylites, Godiva, The Gardener's Daugh- 
ter, Ulysses, Sir Galahad, and the fragment "Break, Break, Break." 
The Princess : a Medley, was published in 1847, the motive of which is to 
illustrate woman's aspirations and indicate her place in relation to man. 
A later edition of the work was enriched by the songs which for their 
lyrical beauty are unsurpassed in literature. 

In 1850, appeared In Memoriam, the now famous elegy, and perhaps 
the most characteristic product of Tennyson's genius. It gives noble 
expression to the poet's sorrow at the death of young Hallain, his once 
bosom friend. The work consists of a hundred and thirty short lyrics, 
all representing, as it has been said, "a phase of the poet's sorrow- 
brooding thought." Maud, a rather sentimental metrical romance, ap- 
peared in 1855, together with some fine additional poems. The volume 
contains The Charge of the Light Brigade, and an Ode on the Death of 
the Duke of Wellington. In this year the University of Oxford conferred 
on Tennyson the honorary degree of Doctor of Civil Law ; while five 
years previously, on the death of Wordsworth, he had been awarded the 
English poet-laureateship. 

During the years 1859-1872, appeared in successive instalments Tenny- 
son's masterpiece, Idylls of the King, an epic of chivalry, interpreted by 
some as personifying in its various characters, the soul at war with the 
senses. The Idylls may be read as a mere narrative — a poetical render- 
ing of the romantic stories that gather around the legendary King Arthur ; 
or as an allegory, opening with the birth of the soul as portrayed in The 
Coming of Arthur, and closing with its mystical vanishing, as recorded 
in The Passing of Arthur. In 1864, came Enoch Arden and Other Poems. 
The longer poem relates a simple but pathetic story of domestic life in a 
seafarer's home, which has won much favor for its rare idyllic beauty. It 
contains many fine descriptive passages not only of picturesque English 
hamlet life, but of rich tropic scenery on the desolate island upon which 
one of the characters (Enoch) has been cast. In the volume are The 
Northern Farmer (a dialect poem), Aylmer's Field, Lucretius, Sea Dreams, 
and Tithonus. 



INTRODUCTION. 5 

The more important minor pieces in Tennyson's later life include De 
Profundis, Rizpah, The Charge of the Heavy Brigade, The Defence of 
Lucknow, and the spirited battle of the fleet, founded on an incident 
in the era of the Armada, entitled The Revenge. Other later produc- 
tions are the volumes entitled Tiresias, Demeter and other Poems, 
Akbar's Dream, and The Death of (Enone. His more ambitious modern 
work, which is full of extraordinary vigor and freshness, includes a 
number of historical dramas, the chief of which are Queen Mary, Harold, 
and Becket. Two of these have been placed on the stage with fine 
effect ; but their chief merit is as historical delineations of dramatic 
incidents in English history, enriched by vivid character-painting and 
distinguished by numerous passages of strenuous and lofty thought. 
— In 1874, the poet became Lord Tennyson, a peerage having been con- 
ferred upon him as a tribute to his worth. His death occurred at Aid- 
worth, his seat in Sussex, October 6, 1892, in his eighty-third year, and 
literature still mourns the great and tuneful Laureate. 

POETRY AND RHYTHM. 

The selections wnich are given in this volume will, it is believed, be 
found suited to the needs of pupils of the eighth and ninth school years in 
reading and studying one of the chief modern English poets. 

The teacher may profitably arrange some preliminary class study of 
the nature and structure of poetry as distinguished from prose. Poetry 
has its own mission, to appeal to the feelings; its own style, poetic words, 
rare words, words obsolete in prose ; its own arrangement, transposed 
order of words, elliptical expressions, omission of minor words ; its own 
imagery, similes, metaphors, personifications, and other figures of speech, 
which are to the poet what color is to the painter. Poetry also has its 
own form — verses and stanzas as contrasted with sentences and para- 
graphs in prose. 

It may have rhyme ; it must have rhythm, the alternate stress and 
repression of the voice in reading. This metrical or measured succes- 
sion of syllables depended, in the classic languages, on the way long and 
short syllables were made to succeed each other; but English metre 
depends upon the distinction of accented and unaccented syllables, as, 

I fal'|ter where' | I firm'|ly trod.' 

Bright'est and | best' of the | sons' of the | morn'ing. 

I come' | o'er the mount' |ains with light' | and song'. 

These groups of two or three syllables, only one of which is accented, 



6 INTRODUCTION. 

are called feet. Each foot has one accented and one or two unaccented 
syllables. There are five different measures, as seen in the words : 1, 
beau'ty (trochee); 2, com-bine' (iambus); 3, mur'-muring (dactyl); 4, com- 
pletion (amphibrach); 5, colonnade' (anapest). 

A trochee is a foot containing an accented, followed by an unaccented, 
syllable. An iambus is the reverse of the trochee, the unaccented syllable 
coming first. A dactyl is a foot of three syllables, the first accented. 
An amphibrach is a foot of three syllables, of which the second is accented. 
An anapest is a foot of three syllables, the third accented. 

We frequently find substituted feet, an iambus for a trochee, a trochee 
for an iambus, a trochee or an iambus for a dactyl, or an anapest for a 
dactyl; but two accented syllables or three clearly pronounced unac- 
cented syllables, are not brought together in the same foot. The tri- 
syllabic metres have a tripping lightness that suggests the analogy of 
triple time in music. 

A verse of two feet is called a dimeter; of three feet, a trimeter; of 
four feet, a tetrameter; of five feet, a pentameter; of six feet, a hexameter. 

Enoch Arden is in iambic pentameter or heroic verse. 

"Long lines' | of cliff' | break'ing | have left' | a chasm'; 
And in' | the chasm' | are foam' | and yel'|low sand'; " 

An occasional trochee occurs, as | break'ing | in the first line. 
The Defence of Lucknow is in dactylic hexameter verse. 

Frail' were the | works' that de|fend'ed the | hold' that we | held' with 

our | lives' — 
Wom'en and | chil'dren ajmong' us, God | help' them, our | chil'dren 

and | wives' ! 
Hold' it we | might' — and for | fifteen | days' or for | twen'ty at | most.' 
"Nev'er sur|ren'der, I | charge' you, but | ev'ery man | die' at his | 

post' ! " 

These lines show the ordinary movement of this poem. The sixth foot 
of each line is uniformly incomplete, containing only its accented sylla- 
ble. The reader finds an occasional substitution of a trochee for a 
dactyl, or in a few instances a supernumerary syllable, as at the end of 
the first and sixth lines. In the sixth line may also be noted the unusual 
occurrence of an amphibrach — two amphibrachs. 

Hexameter was the heroic or epic measure of the Greeks and Romans. 
The sixth foot was regularly a spondee (two long syllables) and the fifth 
a dactyl. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Ring Out, Wild Bells is in iambic tetrameter verse, 

Ring out', | wild bells', | to the' | wild sky', 
The fly'|ing cloud', | the frost' |y light'. 

The Charge of the Light Brigade is in dactylic dimeter verse. 

" Half a league, | half a league, 

Half a league | on' ward, 

All' in the | valley of | Heath, 

Rode' the | six' hundred." 

A trochee repeatedly takes the place of a dactyl, and sometimes a 
supernumerary syllable is found, as in the third line. 

In oral reading of poetry, care should be taken while noting the met- 
rical accents, to avoid a sing-song movement, and to make appropriate, 
delicate recognition of the cassural and final pauses. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Enoch Arden 9 

The Coming of Arthur 38 

The Passing of Arthur 54 

Columbus 70 

The May Queen 78 

New- Year's Eve 80 

Conclusion 82 

Dora 85 

The Charge of the Light Brigade 90 

The Defence of Lucknow . . . . . . . .92 

Lady Clare 98 

Break, Break, Break 102 

The Brook .102 

Bugle Song 104 

Widow and Child 105 

The Days that are no More . . . . . . . . 106 

I Envy Not 106 

Oh Yet We Trust 107 

Ring Out, Wild Bells 108 

Crossing the Bar . 110 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS. 



ENOCH AKDEN. 

Lostg lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm ; 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands ; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster ; then a mouldered church ; and higher 
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill ; 
And high in heaven behind it a gray down l 
With Danish barrows ; 2 and a hazel-wood, 
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port, 
And Philip Eay the miller's only son, 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore, 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy 3 fishing-nets, 
Anchors of rusty fluke/ and boats up-drawn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflowed, or following up 
And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

* hillock of sand thrown up hy wind near 3 dark colored, 
the shore. 4 part of anchor that fastens in the ground. 

2 heaps of earth or stones over burial places. 



10 ENOCU ARDEN. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff : 
In this the children played at keeping house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 
While Annie still was mistress ; but at times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week : 
"This is my house and this my little wife." 
" Mine too," said Philip, " turn and turn about : ' 
When, if they quarrelled, Enoch stronger made 
Was master : then would Philip, his blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, 
Shriek out " I hate you, Enoch," and at this 
The little wife would weep for company, 
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 
And say she would be little wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, 
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl ; and Enoch spoke his love, 
But Philip loved in silence ; and the girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; 
But she loved Enoch ; tho* she knew it not, 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes, 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 
To purchase his own boat, and make a home 
For Annie : and so prospered that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 
A caref uller in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast 
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year 
On board a merchantman, 1 and made himself 
Full sailor ; and he thrice had pluck'd a life 
From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas 

1 trading vessel, distinguished from man-of-war. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 11 

And all men look'd upon him favorably : 

And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May, 

He purchased his own boat, and made a home 

For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway up 

The narrow street that clamber'd 1 toward the mill. 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide, 
The younger people making holiday, 
With bag and sack and basket, great and small, 
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stayed 
(His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind ; but as he climb'd the hill, 
Just where the prone 2 edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, 
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, 
That burn'd as on an altar. Philip look'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom ; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; 
There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking, 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, 
Seven happy years of health and competence, 
And mutual love and honorable toil ; 
With children ; first a daughter. In him woke, 
With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost, 
And give his child a better bringing-up 

1 rose steeply. s sloping. 



12 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Than his had been, or hers ; a wish renew'd, 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, 
Or often journeying landward ; for in truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, 1 and his face, 
Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter gales, 
Not only to the market-cross were known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, 2 
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, 
Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. 

Then came a change, as all things human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Open'd a larger haven : thither used 
Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; 
And once when there, and clambering on a mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell : 
A limb was broken when they lifted him ; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one : 
Another hand crept too across his trade 
Taking her bread and theirs and on him fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, 
To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 
And her, he loved, a beggar : then he pray'd 
" Save them from this, whatever comes to me." 
And while he pray'd, the master of that ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 

1 osier (willow) basket. 2 image of lion guarding the entrance. 



ENOCH ARDEN". 13 

Came, for he knew the man and valued him, 

Keporting of his vessel China-bound, 

And wanting yet a boatswain. 1 Would he go ? 

There yet were many weeks before she saiFd, 

SaiPd from this port. Would Enoch have the place ? 

And Enoch all at once assented to it, 

Eejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance appear'd ./ 

No graver than as when some little cloud 
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 
And isles a light in the offing : yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what to do ? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans ; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather'd in her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — 
So might she keep the house while he was gone. 
Should he not trade himself out yonder ? go 
This voyage more than once ? yea twice or thrice — 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a larger craft, 
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 
Have all his pretty young ones educated, 
And pass his days in peace among his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all : 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 
Nursing the sickly babe,' her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms ; 

1 highest non-commissioned officer of a ship, who musters the crew and transmits orders. 



14 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, 
Appraised ' his weight and fondled fatherlike, 
But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt a 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 
Many a sad kiss by day by night renewed 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her, 
Her and her children, let her plead in vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand 
To fit their little streetward sitting-room 
"With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, 
Auger and saw, while Annie seem'd to hear 
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrilFd and rang, 
Till this was ended, and his careful hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having order'd all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and -he, 
Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, 

1 estimated. 2 encircled. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 15 

Save, as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God, 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he said 
" Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, 
For Fll be back, my girl, before you know it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle " and he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 
And make him merry, when I come home again. 
Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard, 
And almost hoped herself ; but when he turn'd 
The current of his talk to graver things 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 
Heard and not heard him ; as the village girl, 
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, 
Musing on him that used to fill it for her, 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

At length she spoke " Enoch, you are wise ; 
And yet for all your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more." 

"Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here 
(He named the day) ; get you a seaman's glass, 
Spy oat my face, and laugh at all your fears." 



16 ENOCH ARDEN. 

But when the last of those last moments came, 
"Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, 
Look to the babes, and till I come again 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more for me ; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor holds. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these ' 
Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His : He made it." 2 

Enoch rose, 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife, 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 
When Annie would have raised him Enoch said 
" Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how should the child 
Eemember this ? " and kiss'd him in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it : this he kept 
Thro' all his future ; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. 

She, when the day that Enoch mention'd, came, 
Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : perhaps 
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye ; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous ; 
She saw him not : and while he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
She watch'd it, and departed weeping for him ; 
Then, tho'she mourn'd his absence as his grave, 
Set her sad will no less to chime with his, 

' Psalm cxxxix. 7, etc. 3 Psalm xcv. 5. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 17 

But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies, 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less, 
And still foreboding " What would Enoch say ?" 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 
Than what she gave in buying what she sold : 
She faiFd and saddened knowing it ; and thus, 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 1 

Now the third child was sickly-born and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 
With all a mother's care : nevertheless, 
Whether her business often calPd her from it, 
Or thro' the want of what it needed most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 
What most it needed — howsoever it was, 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried it, 
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace, 
(Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
" Surely," said Philip, " I may see her now, 
May be some little comfort ; " therefore went, 
Past thro' the solitary room in front, 
Paused for a moment at an inner door, 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd ; but Annie, seated with her grief, 

1 excessive habitual sadness. 



18 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Fresh from the burial of her little one, 
Cared not to look on any human face, 
But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly 
" Annie, I want to ask a favor of you." 

He spoke ; the passion in her moan'd reply 
" Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am \" half abash'd him ; yet unask'd, 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war, 
He set himself beside her, saying to her : 

" I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong man : 
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he wilFd, and bore it thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary way, 
And leave you lonely ? not to see the world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the wherewithal 
To give his babes a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or yours : that was his wish. 
And if he come again, vext will he be 
To find the precious morning hours were lost. 
And it would vex him even in his graA r e, 
If he could know his babes were running wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now — 
Have we not known each other all our lives ? 
I do beseech you by the love you bear 
Him and his children not to say me nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again 
Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to school : 
This is the favor that I came to ask." 



ENOCH AKDEN. 19 

Then Annie with her brows against the wall 
Answer'd " I cannot look you in the face ; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down. 
When you came in my sorrow broke me down ; 
And now I think your kindness breaks me down ; 
But Enoch lives ; that is borne in on me : 
He will repay you : money can be repaid ; 
Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd 
"Then you will let me, Annie ?" 

There she turnM, 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon him, 
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face, 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately, 
And past into the little garth ' beyond. 
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, 
And bought them needful books, and everyway, 
Like one who does his duty by his own, 
Made himself theirs ; and tho' for Annie's sake, 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall, 
Or conies 2 from the down, and now and then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the waste. 

1 yard ; garden. 2 rabbits. 



20 ENOCH AKDEN. 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind : 
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all ; 
From distant corners of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily ; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were they ; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him 
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gained 
As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seem'd to them 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream, 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue, 
Going we know not where : and so ten years, 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came. 

It chanced one evening Annie's children long'd 

To go with others, nutting to the wood, 

And Annie would go with them ; then they begg'd 

For Father Philip (as they call'd him) too : 

Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust, 

Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; and saying to him 

' ' Come with us Father Philip " he denied ; 

But when the children pluck'd at him to go, 

He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, 

For was not Annie with them ? and they went. 

But after scaling half the weary down, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Fail'd her ; and sighing, "Let me rest," she said : 
So Philip rested with her well-content ; 



ENOCH ARDEN. 21 

While all the younger ones with jubilant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously ' 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke 
The lithe a reluctant 3 boughs to tear away 
Their tawny 4 clusters, crying to each other 
And calling, here and there, about the wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her jaresence, and remembered one dark hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept into the shadow : at last he said, 
Lifting his honest forehead, " Listen, Annie, 
How, merry they are down yonder in the wood. 
Tired, Annie ? " for she did not speak a word. 
" Tired ?" but her face had fall'n upon her hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 
" The ship was lost/' he said, "the ship was lost ! 
No more of that ! why should you kill yourself 
And make them orphans quite ?" And Annie said 
" I thought not of it : but — I know not why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 
" Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so long, 
That tho' I know not when it first came there, 
I know that it will out at last. Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 
That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living ; well then — let me speak : 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help : 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless— they say that women are so quick — 

1 wildly and noisily. 3 unwilling (figurative). 

2 pliant ; limber. 4 dull yellowish-brown color. 



22 ENOCH ARDEN". 

Perhaps you know what I would have you know — 

I wish you for my wife. I fain ' would prove 

A father to your children : I do think 

They love me as a father : I am sure 

That I love them as if they Avere mine own ; 

And I believe, if you were fast my wife, 

That after all these sad uncertain years, 

We might be still as happy as God grants 

To any of his creatures. Think upon it : 

For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 

No burthen, save my care for you and yours : 

And we have known each other all our lives, 

And I have loved you longer than you know." 

Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she spoke : 
" You have been as God's good angel in our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was ? what is it that you ask ? " 
"I am content," he answer'd, " to be loved 
A little after Enoch." " " she cried, 
Scared as it were, " dear Philip, wait a while : 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long : 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year : 

wait a little ! " Philip sadly said 
"Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little." " Nay "she cried 

" I am bound : you have my promise — in a year : 
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine ? " 
And Philip answer'd " I will bide my year." 

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 

1 gladly. 



J 



ENOCH ARDEN. 23 



from the Danish barrow overhead ; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie, rose 
And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand, 
Saying gently " Annie, when I spoke to you, 
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong, 
I am always bound to you, but you are free." 
Then Annie weeping answer'd " I am bound." 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it were, 
While yet she went about her household ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words, 
That he had loved her longer than she knew, 
That autumn into autumn flash'd again, 
And there he stood once more before her face, 
Claiming her promise. " Is it a year ?" she ask'd. 
"Yes, if the nuts " he said " be ripe again : 
Come out and see." But she — she put him off — 
So much to look to — such a change — a month — 
Give her a month — she knew that she was bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip wiih. his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
" Take your own time, Annie, take your own time.' 
And Annie could have wept for pity of him ; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, 
Till half -another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 1 

1 the gossips began to think they were mistaken in their surmises. 



24 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 

Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her ; 

Some that she but held off to draw him on ; 

And others laugh'd at her and Philip too, 

As simple folk that knew not their own minds, 

And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 

Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 

Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 

Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish ; 

But evermore the daughter prest upon her 

To wed the man so dear to all of them 

And lift the household out of poverty ; 

And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 

Careworn and wan ; and all these things fell on her 

Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign " my Enoch is he gone ? " 
Then compassed round by the blind wall of night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign, 
Suddenly put her finger on the text, 1 
" Under the palm-tree." That was nothing to her : 
No meaning there : she closed the Book and slept ; 
When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height, 
Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun : 
"He is gone," she thought, "he is happy, he is sing- 
ing 
Hosanna in the highest : yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 
Whereof the happy people strowing cried 

1 the attempt to ascertain the will of God by opening the Bible and selecting the first 
verse the eye lights upon, is characteristic of illiterate or superstitious people. 



ENOCH ARDEN". 25 

• 
' Hosanna in the highest ! ' " Here she woke, 
Eesolved, sent for him and said wildly to him 
" There is no reason why we should not wed." 
ic Then for God's sake," he answer'd, ' ' both our sakes, 
So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear, 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 
Fearing to enter : Philip thought he knew : 
Such doubts and fears were common to her state, 
Being with child : but when her child was born, 
Then her new child was as herself renew'd, 
Then the new mother came about her heart, 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 
And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch ? prosperously sail'd 
The ship " Good Fortune," tho' at setting forth 
The Biscay, 1 roughly ridging eastward, shook 
And almost overwhelmed her, yet unvext 
She slipt across the summer of the world, 2 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape 3 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair, 
She passing thro' the summer world again, 
The breath of heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 4 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 

; bay west of Prance and north, of Spain. 3 Cape of Good Hope, near the southern 
'• torrid zone. extremity of Africa. 4 East Indies. 



26 ENOCH ARDEN. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home-voyage : at first indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day, 
Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows : 
Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, 
Then baffling, a long course of them ; and last 
Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens 
Till hard upon the cry of "breakers " came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 
But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, 
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Eich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human sustenance, 
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots ; 
Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut. 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. 

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, 
Hurt in that might of sudden ruin and wreck, 
Lay lingering out a five-years' death-in-life. 
They could not leave him. After he was gone, 
The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, 
Eire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 



ENOCH ARDEN". 27 

Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 

In those two deaths he read God's warning " wait." 

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, 
The slender coco's ' drooping crown of plumes, 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 2 
That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the world, 
All these he saw ; but what he fain had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human face, 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, 
The league-long roller thundering on the reef, 
The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd 
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, 
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail : 
No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the palms and ferns and precipices ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the east ; 
The blaze upon his island overhead ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the west ; 
Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, 
, The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard on him paused, 

l palm-tree that produces the coco(cocoa) nut. 2 twining or trailing herbs or shrubs. 



28 ENOCH ARDEN. 

A phantom made of many phantoms moved 

Before him haunting him, or he himself 

Moved haunting people, things and places, known 

Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 

The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, 

The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes. 

The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, 

The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 

November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 

The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, 

And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells ; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle 
Eeturn'd upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which being everywhere 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, 
Surely the man had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 
Year after year. His hopes to see his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar fields 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay : 
For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills, 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 



ENOCH ARDEN. 29 

In search of stream or fount, and fill'd the shores 

With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorge 

Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded solitary, 

Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad, 

Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seemed, 

With inarticulate rage, and making signs 

They knew not what : and yet he led the way 

To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; 

And ever as he mingled with the crew, 

And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue 

Was loosened, till he made them understand ; 

Whom, when their casks were filFd they took aboard 

And there the tale he utter'd brokenly, 

Scarce-credited at first but more and more, 

Amazed and melted all who listened to it : 

And clothes they gave him and free passage home ; 

But oft he work'd among the rest and shook 

His isolation from him. None of these 

Came from his country, or could answer him, 

If questioned, aught of what he cared to know. 

And dull the voyage was with long delays, 

The vessel scarce sea- worthy ; but evermore 

His fancy fled before the lazy wind 

Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 

He like a lover down thro' all his blood 

Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath 

Of England, blown across her ghostly wall : 

And that same morning officers and men 

Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 

Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it : 

Then moving up the coast they landed him, 

Ev'n in that harbor whence he saiFd before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any one, 
But homeward — home — what home ? had he a home ? 



30 ENOCH ARDEN. 

His home, he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon, 
Sunny but chill ; till drawn thro' either chasm, 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
Koll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world in gray ; 
Cut off the length of highway on before, 
And left but narrow breadth to left and right 
Of wither'd holt ' or tilth ' or pasturage. 
On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down : 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 
His eyes upon the stones, he reached the home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 
In those far-off seven happy years were born ; 
But finding neither light nor murmur there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept 
Still downward thinkino- "dead or dead to me ! " 



Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity, 
So propt, worm eaten, ruinously old, 
He thought it must have gone ; but he was gone 
Who kept it ; and his widow Miriam Lane, 
With daily-dwindling profits held the house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

1 piece of woodland. 2 tillage ground. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 31 

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous/ 
Nor let him be, but often breaking in, 
Told him, with other annals of the port, 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow'd, 
So broken — all the story of his house. 
His baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her little ones to school, 
And kept them in it, his long wooing her, 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 
Of Philip's child : and o'er his countenance 
No shadow past, nor motion : any one, 
Eegarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale 
Less than the teller : only when she closed 
' ' Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost " 
He, shaking his gray head pathetically, 2 
Eepeated muttering " cast away and lost ; " 
Again in deeper inward whispers "lost !" 

But Enoch y earned to see her face again ; 
" If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy." So the thought 
Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth, 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below ; 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, 
The latest house to landward ; but behind, 

1 talkative. 2 sadly. 



32 ENOCH ARDEN. 

With one small gate that open'd on the waste, 

Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd : 

And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 

A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 

Of shingle/ and a walk divided it : 

But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole 

Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 

That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs 

Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish'd board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth : 
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms, 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd ; 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe, 
But turning now and then to speak with him, 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful, 
And him, that other, reigning in his place, 
Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — 

1 coarse gravel, from the shores of rivers or the sea. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 66 

Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than things heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fearM 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
'And feeling all along the garden-wall, 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 

" Too hard to bear ! why did they take me thence ? 
God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 
A little longer ! aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to these ? j 

They know me not. I should betray myself. 
Never : no father's kiss for me — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son." 

There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little, 
And he lay tranced ; but when he rose and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again, 
All down the Ions: and narrow street he went 



34 ENOCH ARDEN. 

Beating it in upon his weary brain, 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
"Not to tell her, never to let her know." 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 
Prayer from a living source within the will, 
And beating up thro' all the bitter world, 
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea, 
Kept him a living soul. " This miller's wife " 
He said to Miriam " that you spoke about, 
Has she no fear that her first husband lives ?" 
" Ay, ay, poor soul " said Miriam, ' c fear enow ! 
If you could tell her you had seen him dead, 
Why, that would be her comfort ; " and he thought 
" After the Lord has call'd me she shall know, 
I wait his time," and Enoch set himself, 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks, 
That brought the stinted commerce of those days ; 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself : 
Yet since he did but labor for himself, 
Work without hope, there was not life in it 
Whereby the man could live ; and as the year 
Eoll'd itself round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had return'd, a languor came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, till he could do no more, 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 



ENOCH ARDEN. 35 

The boat that bears the hope of life approach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he saw 
Death dawning on him, and the close of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope 
On Enoch thinking " after I am gone, 
Then may she learn I lov'd her to the last." 
He calFd aloud for Miriam Lane and said 
" Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 
Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 
" Dead," clamor'd the good woman, ' ' hear him talk ! 
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." 
" Swear " added Enoch sternly " on the book." 
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 
" Did you know Enoch Arden of this town ?■" 
" Know him ? " she said " I knew him far away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; 
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her ; 
" His head is low, and no man cares for him. 
I think I have not three days more to live ; 
I am the man." At which the woman gave 
A half-incredulous, 1 half -hysterical cry. 
" You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was a foot 
Higher than you be." Enoch said again 
' ' My G-od has bow'd me down to what I am ; 
My grief and solitude have broken me ; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has twice been changed — 
I married her who married Philip Ray. 
Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 

1 half -doubting. 



36 ENOCH AKDEN. 

His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 
And how he kept it. As the woman heard, 
Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears, 
While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly 
To rush abroad all round the little haven, 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 
But awed and promise-bounden she forbore, 
Saying only " See your bairns ' before you go ! 
Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden," and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied : 

" "Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again ; mark me and understand, 
While I have power to speak. I charge you nov 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her ; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she laid her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too ; 
He never meant us anything but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead, 
Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 
I am their father ; but she must not come, 
For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood 
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be : 
This hair is his : she cut it off and gave it, 
And I have borne it with me all these years, 

1 children (Scotch). 



ENOCH AKDEN. 37 

And thought to bear it with me to my grave ; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, 
My babe in bliss : wherefore when I am gone, 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her : 
It will moreover be a token to her, 
That I am he." 

He ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble ' answer promising all, 
That once again he roll'd his eyes upon her 
Repeating all he wished, and once again 
She promised. 

Then the third night after this, 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the sea, 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, he' spread his arms abroad 
Cryjng with a loud voice ' ' A sail ! a sail ! 
I am saved ; " and so fell back and spoke no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 

1 fluently uttered. 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 

[Arthur, a prince of Britain, and hero of the famous romances of the Kound Table, is 
supposed to have flourished in the fifth or sixth century, during the dark period which 
occurred between the evacuation of Britain by the Romans and the conquest of that island 
by the Saxons. The authentic accounts of his deeds are so scanty that his existence has 
been doubted by some antiquaries. Tennyson makes this Arthur the hero of his " Idylls 
of the King," from which "The Coming of Arthur" and "The Passing of Arthur " are 
taken.] 

Leodogran", the King of Cameliard, 1 
Had one fair daughter, and none other child; 
And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, 
Guinevere, and in her his one delight. 

For many a petty king ere Arthur came 
Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war 
Each upon other, wasted all the land; 
And still from time to time the heathen host 
Swarm'd overseas, and harried 2 what was left. 
And so there grew great tracts of wilderness, 
Wherein the beast was ever more and more, 
But man was less and less, till Arthur came. 
For first Aurelius lived and fought and died, 
And after him King Uther fought and died, 
But either fail'd to make the kingdom one. 
And after these King Arthur for a space, 
And thro' the puissance 3 of his Table Round, ' 
Drew all their petty princedoms under him, 
Their king and head, and made a realm, and reign'd. 

And thus the land of Cameliard was waste, 
Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein, 

1 mythical place. 2 ravaged ; plundered. 3 power. 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 39 

And none or few to scare or chase the beast ; 
So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear 
Came night and day, and rooted in the fields, 
And wallow'd in the gardens of the King. 
And ever and anon the wolf would steal 
The children and devour, but now and then, 
Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat 
To human sucklings ; and the children, housed 
In her foul den, there at their meat would growl, 
And mock their foster-mother on four feet, 
Till, straightened, they grew up to wolf-like men, 
Worse than the wolves. And King Leodogran 
Groan' d for the Roman legions ' here again, 
And Caesar's eagle : then his brother king, 
Urien, assailed him : last a heathen horde, 
Reddening the sun with smoke and earth with blood. 
And on the spike that split the mother's heart 
Spitting the child, brake on him, till, amazed, 
He knew not whither he should turn for aid. 

But — for he heard of Arthur newly crown'd, 
Tho' not without an uproar made by those 
Who cried, " He is not Uther's son" — the King 
Sent to him, saying, " Arise, and help us thou ! 
For here between the man and beast we die." 

And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms, 
But heard the call, and came : and Guinevere 
Stood by the castle walls to watch him pass ; 
But since he neither wore on helm or shield 
The golden symbol of his kinglihood, 
But rode a simple knight among his knights, 
And many of these in richer arms than he, 

1 soldiers (Csesar invaded Britain 55 B. C. The last Roman soldiers were withdrawn 

410 A.D.). 



40 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 

She saw him not, or mark'd not, if she saw, 
One among many, tho' his face was bare. 
But Arthur, looking downward as he past, 
Felt the light of her eyes into his life 
Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and pitch'd 
His tents beside the forest. Then he drave 
The heathen; after, slew the beast, and felFd 
The forest, letting in the sun, and made 
Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight 
And so return'd. 

For while he linger'd there, 
A doubt that ever smoulder' d in the hearts 
Of those great Lords and Barons of his realm 
Flashed forth and into war : for most of these, 
Colleaguing ' with a score of petty kings, 
Made head against him, crying, " Who is he 
That he should rule us ? who hath proven him 
King TTther's son ? for lo ! we look at him, 
And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice, 
Are like to those of Uther whom we knew. 
This is the son of Gorloi's, not the King ; 
This is the son of Anton, not the King." 

And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt 
Travail, 2 and throes and agonies of the life, 
Desiring to be join'd Avith Guinevere ; 
And thinking as he rode, " Her father said 
That there between the man and beast they die. 
Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts 
Up to my throne, and side by side with me ? 
What happiness to reign a lonely king, 
Vext — ye stars that shudder over me, 
earth that soundest hollow under me, 



THE COMING OF AKTHUR. 41 

Vext with waste dreams ? for saving I be joined 
To her that is the fairest under heaven, 
I seem as nothing in the mighty world, 
And cannot will my will, nor work my work 
Wholly, nor make myself in mine own realm 
Victor and lord. But were I join'd with her, 
Then might we live together as one life, 
And reigning with one will in everything 
Have power in this dark land to lighten it, 
And power on this dead world to make it live/' 

Thereafter — as he speaks who tells the tale — 
When Arthur reach'd a field-of-battle bright 
With pitch'd pavilions of his foe, the world 
Was all so clear about him, that he saw 
The smallest rock far on the faintest hill, 
And even in high day the morning star. 
So when the King had set his banner broad, 
At once from either side, with trumpet-blast, 
And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto blood, 
The long-lanced battle let their horses run. 
And now the Barons and the kings prevailed, 
And now the King, as here and there that war 
Went swaying; but the Powers who walk the world 
Made lightnings and great thunders over him, 
And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might, 
And mightier of his hands with every blow, 
And leading all his knighthood threw the kings 
Carados, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, 
Claudias, and Clariance of Northumberland, 
The King Brandagoras of Latangor, 
With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore, 
And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a voice 
As dreadful as the shout of one who sees 
To one who sins, and deems himself alone 



42 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 

And all the world asleep, they swerved and brake 

Flying, and Arthur call'd to stay the brands ' 

That hacked among the flyers, " Ho ! they yield ! " 

So like a painted battle the war stood 

Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, 

And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord. 

He laugh'd upon his warrior whom he loved 

And honor'd most. " Thou dost not doubt me King, 

So well thine arm hath wrought for me to-day." 

" Sir and my liege," he cried, " the fire of God 

Descends upon thee in the battle-field: 

I know thee for my King !" "Whereat the two, 

For each had warded either in the fight, 

Sware on the field of death a deathless love. 

And Arthur said, "Man's word is God in man: 

Let chance what will, I trust thee to the death." 

Then quickly from the foughten field he sent 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, 
His new-made knights, to King Leodograu, 
Saying, "If I in aught have served thee well, 
Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife." 

"Whom when he heard, Leodogran in heart 
Debating — " How should I that am a king, 
However much he holp 2 me at my need, 
Give my one daughter saving 3 to a king, 
And a king's son ? " — lifted his voice, and call'd 
A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom 
He trusted all things, and of him required 
His counsel : " Knowest thou aught of Arthur's 
birth ? " 

Then spake the hoary chamberlain and said, 
" Sir King, there be but two old men that know : 

» swords. a (old form for) help. 3 except. 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 43 

And each is twice as old as I ; and one 
Is Merlin, the wise man that ever served 
King Uther thro' his magic art ; and one 
Merlin's master (so they call him) Bleys, 
Who taught him magic ; but the scholar ran 
Before the master, and so far, that Bleys 
Laid magic by, and sat him down, and wrote 
All things and whatsoever Merlin did 
In one great annal-book, where after years 
Will learn the secret of our Arthur's birth." 

To whom the King Leodogran replied, 
" friend, had I been holpen half at well 
By this King Arthur as by thee to-day, 
Then beast and man had had their share of me : 
But summon here before us yet once more 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bevidere." 

Then, when they came before him, the King said, 
" I have seen the cuckoo chased by lesser fowl, 
And reason in the chase : but wherefore now 
Do these your lords stir up the heat of war, 
Some calling Arthur born of Grorloi's, 
Others of Anton ? Tell me, ye yourselves, 
Hold ye this Arthur for King Uther's son ?" 

And Ulfius and Brastias answer'd, " Ay." 
Then Bedivere, the first of all his knights 
Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, spake — 
For bold in heart and act and word was he, 
Whenever slander breathed against the King — 

" Sir, there be many rumors on this head : 
Eor there be those who hate him in their hearts, 
Call him baseborn, and since his ways are sweet, 



44 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 

And theirs are bestial, hold him less than man : 
And there be those who deem him more than man, 
And dream he dropt from heaven. 

[The extended account of the rumors is here omitted. Bedivere con- 
cludes by announcing the one essential fact that Merlin, who knows 
Arthur's antecedents, has proclaimed him Uther's heir, and king.] 

" This year, when Merlin (for his hour had come) 
Brought Arthur forth, and set him in the hall, 
Proclaiming, ' Here is Uther's heir, your king/ 
A hundred voices cried, 'Away with him ! 
No king of ours ! a son of Gorloi's he, 
Or else the child of Anton, and no king, 
Or else baseborn.' Yet Merlin thro' his craft, 
And while the people clamor'd for a king, 
Had Arthur crowned ; but after, the great lords 
Banded, and so brake out in open war." 

Then while the King debated with himself 
If indeed there were truth in anything 
Said by these three, there came to Cameliard, 
With Gawain and young Modred, her two sons, 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent ; 
Whom as he could, not as he would, the King 
Made feast for, saying, as they sat at meat, 

" A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas. 
Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor his men 
Keport him ! Yea, but ye — think ye this king — 
So many those that hate him, and so strong, 
So few his knights, however brave they be — 
Hath body enow to hold his foemen down ? " 

" King," she cried, "and I will tell thee : few, 
Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him ; 



THE COMING OF AETHUK. 45 

For I was near him when the savage yells 

Of Uther's peerage died, and Arthur sat 

Crown'd on the dai's, 1 and his warriors cried, 

' Be thou the king, and we will work thy will 

Who love thee/ Then the King in low deep tones, 

And simple words of great authority, 

Bound them by so strait vows to his own self, 

That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some 

Were pale as at the passing of a ghost, 

Some flushed, and others dazed, as one who wakes 

Half-blinded at the coming of a light. 

" But when he spake and cheer'd his Table Eound 
With large divine and comfortable words 
Beyond my tongue to tell thee — I beheld 
From eye to eye thro' all their Order flash 
A momentary likeness of the King : 
And ere it left their faces, thro' the cross 
And those around it and the Crucified, 
Down from the casement over Arthur, smote 
Flame color, vert 2 and azure 3 , in three rays, 
One falling upon each of three fair queens, 
Who stood in silence near his throne, the friends 
Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright 
Sweet faces, who will help him at his need. 

" And there I saw Mage 4 Merlin, whose vast wit 
And hundred winters are but as the hands 
Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 

" And near him stood the Lady of the Lake, 
Who knows a subtler magic than his own — 
Clothed in white samite, 6 mystic, wonderful. 

1 platform supporting chief seat, sometimes * magician, 
canopied. ■" green. 3 blue. 6 rich silk fabric interwoven with gold. 



46 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 

She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword, 
Whereby to drive the heathen out : a mist 
Of incense curl'd about her, and her face 
Wellnigh was hidden in the minster l gloom ; 
But there was heard among the holy hymns 
A voice as of the waters, for she dwells 
Down in a deep, calm, whatsoever storms 
May shake the world, and when the surface rolls, 
Hath power to walk the waters 2 like our Lord. 

" There likewise I beheld Excalibur 3 
Before him at his crowning borne, the sword 
That rose from out the bosom of the lake, 
. And Arthur row'd across and took it — rich 
With jewels, elfin Urim, 4 on the hilt, 
Bewildering heart and eye — the blade so bright 
That men are blinded by it — on one side, 
Graven in the oldest tongue of all this world, 
' Take me/ but turn the blade and ye shall see, 
And written in the speech ye speak yourself, 
e Cast me away ! ' And sad was Arthur's face 
Taking it, but old Merlin counselled him, 
' Take thou and strike ! the time to cast away 
Is yet far-off.' So this great brand the king 
Took, and by this will beat his foemen down." 

Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thought 
To sift his doubtings to the last, and ask'd, 
Fixing full eyes of question on her face, 
" The swallow and the swift are near akin, 
But thou art closer to this noble prince, 
Being his own dear sister ; " and she said, 

1 cathedral. ing of Arthur," page 60, account of its being 

2 Matt. xiv. 25. " cast away." 

3 name of the famous mystic sword which 4 allusion to Aaron's breastplate of judg- 
was given King Arthur. See, in the " Pass- ment. Exodus xxviii. 30. 



THE COMING OF AKTHUE. 47 

" Daughter of Gorlois and Ygerne ami;" 

" And therefore Arthur's sister ?" ask'd the King. 

She answer'd, " These be secret things/' and sign'd 

To those two sons to pass and let them be. 

And G-awain went, and breaking into song 

Sprang out, and follow'd by his flying hair 

Kan like a colt, and leapt at all he saw : 

But Modred laid his ear beside the doors, 

And there half -heard ; the same that afterward 

Struck for the throne, and striking found his doom. 

And then the Queen made answer, " "What know I ? 
For dark my mother was in eyes and hair, 
And dark in hair and eyes am I ; and dark 
Was Gorlois, yea and dark was Uther too, 
"Wellnigh to blackness ; but this King is fair 
Beyond the race of Britons and of men. 
Moreover, always in my mind I hear 
A cry from out the dawning of my life, 
A mother weeping, and I hear her say, 
' that ye had some brother, pretty one, 
To guard thee on the rough ways of the world.' " 

" Ay," said the King, " and hear ye such a cry ? 
But when did Arthur chance upon thee first ? " 

"0 King ! " she cried, "and I will tell thee true : 
He found me first when yet a little maid : 
Beaten I had been for a little fault 
Whereof I was not guilty ; and out I ran 
And flung myself down on a bank of heath, 1 
And hated this fair world and all therein, 
And wept, and wish'd that I were dead ; and he — 
I know not whether of himself he came, 

1 flowering shrub, widely diffused in Great Britain. 



48 THE COMING- OF ARTHUR 

Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, can walk 

Unseen at pleasure — he was at my side 

And spake sweet words, and comforted my heart, 

And dried my tears, being a child with me. 

And many a time he came, and evermore 

As I grew greater grew with me ; and sad 

At times he seem'd, and sad with him was I, 

Stern too at times, and then I loved him not, 

But sweet again, and then I loved him well. 

And now of late I see him less and less, 

But those first daj^s had golden hours for me, 

For then I surely thought he would be king. 

"But let me tell thee now another tale : 
For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as they say, 
Died but of late, and sent his cry to me, 
To hear him speak before he left his life. 
Shrunk like a fairy changeling ' lay the mage ; 
And when I entered told me that himself 
And Merlin ever served about the King, 
Uther, before he died ; and on the night 
When Uther in Tintagil 2 past away 
Moaning and wailing for an heir, the two 
Left the still King, and passing forth to breathe, 
Then from the castle gateway by the chasm 
Descending thro' the dismal night — a night 
In which the bounds of heaven and earth were lost — 
Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps 
It seem'd in heaven, a ship, the shape thereof 
A dragon wing'd, and all from stem to stern 
Bright with a shining people on the decks, 
And gone as soon as seen. And then the two 
Dropt to the cove, and watch'd the great sea fall, 

1 child left or taken in place of another, s also spelled Tintagel ; a place in the 
as by fairies. southwest of England, near the sea. 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 49 

Wave after wave, each mightier than the last, 

Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep 

And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged 

Eoaring, and all the wave was in a flame : 

And down the wave and in the flame was borne 

A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet, 

Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried 'The 

King ! 
Here is an heir for Uther ! ' And the fringe 
Of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand, 
Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the word, 
And all at once all round him rose in fire, 
So that the child and he were clothed in fire. 
And presently thereafter follow'd calm, 
Free sky and stars : 'And this same child/ he said, 
' Is he who reigns ; nor could I part in peace 
Till this were told/ And saying this the seer 
Went thro' the strait and dreadful pass of death, 
Not ever to be question'd any more 
Save on the further side ; but when I met 
Merlin, and ask'd him if these things were truth — 
The shining dragon and the naked child 
Descending in the glory of the seas — 
He laugh'd as is his wont, and answer'd me 
In riddling triplets of old time, and said : 

" ' Eain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow in the sky ! 
A young man will be wiser by and by ; 
An old man's wit may wander ere he die. 

Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow on the lea ! 
And truth is this to me, and that to thee ; 
And truth or clothed or naked let it be. 

Eain, sun, and rain ! and the free blossom blows : 
Sun, rain, and sun ! and where is he who knows ? 
From the great deep to the great deep he goes.' 

4 



50 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 

" So Merlin riddling anger'd me ; but thou 
Fear not to give this King thine only child, 
Guinevere : so great bards of him will sing- 
Hereafter ; and dark sayings from of old 
Eanging and ringing thro' the minds of men, 
And echo'd by old folk beside their fires 
For comfort after their wage-work is done, 
Speak of the King ; and Merlin in our time 
Hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn 
Tho' men may wound him that he will not die, 
But pass, again to come ; and then or now 
Utterly smite the heathen underfoot, 
Till these and all men hail him for their king." 

She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced, 
But musing " Shall 1 answer yea or nay ? " 
Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw, 
Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew, 
Field after field, up to a height, the peak 
Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king, 
Now looming, and now. lost ; and on the slope 
The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven, 
Fire glimpsed ; and all the land from roof and 

rick, 
In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind, 
Stream 'd to the peak, and mingled with the haze 
And made it thicker ; while the phantom king- 
Sent out at times a voice ; and here or there 
Stood one who pointed toward the voice, the rest 
Slew on and burnt, crying, " No king of ours, 
No son of Uther, and no king of ours ; " 
Till with a wink his dream was changed, the haze 
Descended, and the solid earth became 
As nothing, but the King stood out in heaven, 
Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, and sent 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 51 

TJlfius, and Brastias and Bedivere, 

Back to the court of Arthur answering yea. 

Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he loved 
And honor'd most, Sir Lancelot, to ride forth 
And bring the Queen ; — and watch'd him from the 

gates : 
And Lancelot past away among the flowers, 
(For then was latter April) and return'd 
Among the flowers, in May, with Guinevere. 
To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint, 
Chief of the church in Britain, and before 
The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the King 
That morn was married, while in stainless white, 
The fair beginners of a nobler time, 
And glorying in their vows and him, his knights 
Stood round him, and rejoicing in his joy. 
Far shone the fields of May thro' open door, 
The sacred altar blossomed white with May, 

The Sun of May descended on their King, 
They gazed on all earth's beauty in their Queen, 
Boll'd incense, and there past along the hymns 
A voice as of the waters, while the two 
Sware at the shrine of Christ a deathless love : 
And Arthur said, " Behold, thy doom is mine. 
Let chance what will, I love thee to the death ! " 
To whom the Queen replied with drooping eyes, 
" King and my lord, I love thee to the death ! " 
And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake, 
" Beign ye, and live and love, and make the world 
Other, and may thy Queen be one with thee, 
And all this Order of thy Table Bound 
Fulfil the boundless purpose of their King I" 



52 THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 

So Dubric said ; but when they left the shrine 
Great Lords from Rome before the portal stood, 
In scornful stillness gazing as they past ; 
Then while they paced a city all on fire 
With sun and cloth of gold, the trumpets blew, 
And Arthur's knighthood sang before the King : — 

" Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May ; 
Blow trumpet, the long night hath rolFd away ! 
Blow thro' the living world — ' Let the King reign.' 

" Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's realm ? 
Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe upon helm, 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let the King reign. 

" Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May ! 
Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day ! 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! Let the King 
reign. 

" The King will follow Christ, and we the King 
In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing. 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let the King reign." 

So sang the knighthood, moving to their hall. 
There at the banquet those great Lords from Rome, 
The slowly-fading mistress of the world, 
Strode in, and claim'd their tribute as of yore. 
But Arthur spake, " Behold, for these have sworn 
To wage my wars, and worship me their King ; 
The old order changeth, yielding place to new ; 
And we that fight for our fair father Christ, 
Seeing that ye be grown too weak and old 
To drive the heathen from your Roman wall, 
No tribute will we pay " : so those great lords 
Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with Rome. 



THE COMING OF AKTHUR. 53 

And Arthur and his knighthood for a space 
Were all one will, and thro' that strength the King 
Drew in the petty princedoms under him, 
Fought, and in twelve great battles overcame 
The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reigned. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, 
First made and latest left of all the knights, 
Told, when the man was no more than a voice 
In the white winder of his age, to those 
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds. 

For on their march to westward, Bedivere, 
Who slowly paced among the slumbering host, 
Heard in his tent the moanings of the King : 

' ' I found Him in the shining of the stars, 
I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields, 
But in His ways with men I find Him not. 
I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. 
me ! for why is all around us here 
As if some lesser god had made the world, 
But had not force to shape it as he would, 
Till the High God behold it from beyond, 
And enter it, and make it beautiful ? 
Or else as if the world were wholly fair, 
But that these eyes of men are dense and dim, 
And have not power to see it as it is : 
Perchance, because we see not to the close ; — 
For I, being simple, thought to work His will, 
And have but stricken with the sword in vain ; 
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend 
Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm 
Reels back into the beast, and is no more. 
My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death : 
Nay — God my Christ — I pass but shall not die.' 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 55 

Then, ere that last weird battle in the west, 
There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill'd 
In Lancelot's l war, the ghost of Gawain blown 
Along a wandering wind, and past his ear 
Went shrilling, " Hollow, hollow all delight ! 
Hail, King ! to-morrow thou shalt pass away. 
Farewell ! there is an isle of rest for thee. 
And I am blown along a wandering wind, 
And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight." 
And fainter onward, like wild birds that change 
Their season in the night and wail their way 
From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream 
ShrilFd ; but in going mingled with dim cries 
Far in the moonlit haze among the hills, 
As of some lonely city sacked by night, 
When all is lost, and wife and child with wail 
Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke and calPd, 
" Who spake ? A dream. light upon the wind, 
Thine, Gawain, was the voice — are these dim cries 
Thine ? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild 
Mourn, knowing it will go along with me ? " 

This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake : 
" me, my King, let pass whatever will, 
Elves, and the harmless glamour 2 of the field : 
But in their stead thy name and glory cling 
To all high places like a golden cloud 
For ever : but as yet thou shalt not pass. 
Light was Gawain in life, and light in death 
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man ; 
And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise — 
I hear the steps of Modred in the west, 
And with him many of thy people, and knights 

1 one of Arthur's knights. 

2 charm making one see things different from what they are. 



56 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

Onco thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown 
Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee. 
Eight well in heart they know thee for the King. 
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old." 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" Far other is this battle in the west 
Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth, 
And brake the petty kings, and fought with Eome, 
Or thrust the heathen from the Eoman wall, 
And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mine 
To war against my people and my knights. 
The king who fights his people rights himself. 
And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke 
That strikes them dead is as my death to me. 
Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way 
Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I saw 
One lying in the dust at Almesbury, 1 
Hath folded in the passes of the world." 

Then rose the King and moved his host by night, 
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league, 
Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse 2 — 
A land of old upheaven from the abyss 
By fire, to sink into the abyss again ; 
Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt, 
And the long mountains ended in a coast 
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away 
The phantom circle of a moaning sea. 
There the pursuer could pursue no more, 
And he that fled no further fly the King ; 
And there, that day when the great light of heaven 

1 mythical place. 

a a mythical region in southwestern England, said by eome to be the land from which 
Arthur came. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 57 

Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year, 

On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed. 

Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight 

Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. 

A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea : 

"Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew 

Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold 

With formless fear ; and ev'n on Arthur fell 

Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought. 

For friend and foe were shadows in the mist, 

And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew ; 

And some had visions out of golden youth, 

And some beheld the faces of old ghosts 

Look in upon the battle ; and in the mist 

Was many a noble deed, many a base, 

And chance and craft and strength in single fights, 

And ever and anon with host to host 

Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail ' 

hewn, 
Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash 
Of battleaxes on shattered helms, and shrieks 
After the Christ, of those who falling down 
Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist ; 
And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights, 
Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies, 
Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of the lungs 
In that close mist, and cryings for the light, 
Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead. 

Last, as by some one deathbed after wail 
Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death 
Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore, 
Save for some whisper of the seething seas, 
A dead hush fell ; but when the dolorous a day 

1 coat of mail. 2 sorrowful. 



58 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came 

A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew 

The mist aside, and with that wind the tide 

Eose, and the pale King glanced across the field 

Of battle : but no man was moving there ; 

Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, 

Nor yet of heathen ; only the wan wave 

Brake in among dead faces, to and fro 

Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down 

Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, 

And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome, 

And rolling far along the gloomy shores 

The voice of days of old and days to be. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, 
And whiter than the mist that all day long 
Had held the field of battle was the King : 

" Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world, 
And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move, 
And beats upon the faces of the dead, 
My dead, as tho' they had not died for me ? — 
Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n 
Confusion, till I know not what I am, 
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King. 
Behold, I seem but King among the dead." 

Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere : "My King, 
King everywhere ! and so the dead have kings, 
There also will I worship thee as King. 
Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live 
Who loves thee ; but who hates thee, he t'hat brought 
The heathen back among us, yonder stands, 
Modred, unharmed, the traitor of thine house." 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 59 

Then spake the King: "My house hath been my 
doom. 
But call not thou this traitor of my house 
Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me. 
My house are rather they who sware my vows, 
Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me King. 
And well for thee, saying in my dark hour, 
When all the purport of my throne hath faiPd, 
That quick or dead thou holdest me for King. 
King am I, whatsoever be their cry ; 
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see 
Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this the King 
Made at the man : then Modred smote his liege 
Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword 
Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one blow, 
Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, 
Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell. 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea ; 
Until King Arthur's Table, man by man, 
Had falPn in Lyonnesse about their lord, 
King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep, 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land : 
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we 



60 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

Shall never more, at any future time, 

Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 

Walking about the gardens and the halls 

Of Camelot, 1 as in the days that were. 

I perish by this people which I made, — 

Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again 

To rule once more ; but, let what will to be, be, 

I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 

That without help I cannot last till morn. 

Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 2 

Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 

In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 

Eose up from out the bosom of the lake, 

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 

Holding the sword — and how I row'd across 

And took it, and have worn it, like a king ; 

And, wheresoever I am sung or told 

In aftertime, this also shall be known : 

But now delay not : take Excalibur, 

And fling him far into the middle mere : 3 

Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm 4 — 
A little thing may harm a wounded man ; 
Yet I thy hest 5 will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept, 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 
Old knights, and over them the seawind sang 

1 town where King Arthur is supposed to have held his court. 
a see what is said of this sword in " Coming of Arthur," p. 46. 
3 lake. * helmet. * behest ; command. 



THE PASSING OF ABTHUK. 61 

Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt : 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift mind, 
In act to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags, 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
" Hast thou performed my mission which I gave ? 
What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
1 ! I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : 
" Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, 
Not rendering true answer, as beseemM 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 



62 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, 
As thou art lief J and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 

" And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
What good shall follow this, if this were done ? 
What harm, undone ? Deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt ? But were this kept, 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust 2 of arms, 
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the liills." 
So might some old man speak in the aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame were lost." 

1 beloved. a mock encounter on horseback. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR 63 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 
" What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ? " 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur much in wrath : 
" Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands. " 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush beds, and clutch d the sword, 
And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon, 
And flashing round and round, and whirFd in an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 



04- THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly Avent the other to the King. 

Then sjjoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath 
" Now see I by thine eyes that this is done, 
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or seen ? 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and dre*w him under in the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : 
" My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 65 

And would have spoken, but he found not words ; 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, " Quick, quick ! 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels : — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 
Beneath them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms, 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
Three Queens with crowns of gold : and from them 

rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 
5 



56 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the barge." 
So to the barge they came. There those three Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shattered casque, 1 and chafed his 

hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against a brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 
And all his greaves a and cuisses 3 dash'd with drops 
Of onset ;* and the light and lustrous curls — 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dai's-throne 5 — were par ch'd with dust, 
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King : 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 
From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy elders 6 with the gift of myrrh. 

1 helmet. 2 armor for the legs. B throne with canopy over it. 

3 defensive armor for the thighs. 6 wise men from the East, that presented 

4 violent attack. gifts to the infant Jesus. 



THE PASSING OF AETHUR. 67 

But now the whole Eound Table is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world, 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge : 
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure ! but thou, 
If you shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
Bise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) — 
To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meaclow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound/' 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 



68 THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

That, fluting ' a wild carol ere her death, 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Eevolviug many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 

But when that moan had past forevermore, 
The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn 
Amazed him, and he groan'd, " The King is gone." 
And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, 
" From the great deep to the great deep he goes." 

Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb, 2 
The last hard footstep of that iron crag ; 
Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried, 
"He passes to be King among the dead, 
And after healing of his grievous wound 
He comes again ; but — if he come no more— 
me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat, 
Who shrieked and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed 
On that high day, when, clothed with living light, 
They stood before his throne in silence, friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at his need ?" 

Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint 
As from beyond the limit of the world, 
Like the last echo born of a great cry, 
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice 
Around a king returning from his wars. 

Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb 
Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw, 

1 singing in a clear, soft note like that of a flute. 

2 poetical word for climbed. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, 
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, 
Down that long water opening on the deep 
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go 
From less to less and vanish into light. 
And the new sun rose bringing the new year. 



COLUMBUS. 

The third voyage of Columbus resulted in the discovery of the South American main- 
land. In 1500 Bobadilla (Bovadilla) was sent out to ascertain the condition of the colony 
at .San Domingo under Columbus. On his arrival he caused that illustrious man to be 
arrested and sent in chains to Spain, where he was kindly received by his sovereigns, and 
reinstated in his honors. 

This poem represents Columbus as talking to some friend who visited him in his con- 
finement. 

Chains, my good lord : in your raised brows I read 
Some wonder at our chamber ornaments. 
We brought this iron from our isles of gold. 

Does the king know you deign to visit him 
Whom once he rose from off his throne to greet 
Before his people, like his brother king ? 
I saw your face that morning in the crowd. 

At Barcelona 1 — tho' you were not then 
So bearded. Yes. The city deck'd herself 
To meet me, roar'd my name ; the king, the queen 
Bade me be seated, speak, and tell them all 
The story of my voyage, and while I spoke 
The crowd's roar fell as at the ' ' Peace, be still ! " 
And when I ceased to speak, the king, the queen, 
Sank from their thrones, and melted into tears, 
And knelt, and lifted hand and heart and voice 
In praise to God who led me thro' the waste. 
And then the great " Laudamus" 2 rose to heaven. 

Chains for the Admiral of the Ocean ! chains 
For him who gave a new heaven, a new earth, 
As holy John had prophesied of me, 
Gave glory and more empire to the kings 

1 chief commercial city of Spain, on the northern portion of the Spanish Mediterranean 
coast. a " We praise Thee," etc. 



COLUMBUS. 71 

Of Spain than all their battles ! chains for him 

Who push'd his prows into the setting sun, 

And made West East, and saiFd the Dragon's mouth, 1 

And came upon the Mountain of the World, 

And saw the rivers roll from Paradise ! 

Chains ! we are Admirals of the Ocean, we, 
We and our sons forever. Ferdinand 
Hath sign'd it and our Holy Catholic Queen 2 — 
Of the Ocean — of the Indies — Admirals we — 
Our title, which we never mean to yield, 
Our guerdon 3 not alone for what we did, 
But our amends for all we might have done— 
The vast occasion of our stronger life — 
Eighteen long years of waste, seven in your Spain, 
Lost, showing courts and kings a truth the babe 
Will suck in with his milk hereafter — earth 
A sphere. 

Were you at Salamanca ? 4 No. 
We fronted there the learning of all Spain, 
All their cosmogonies, 5 their astronomies : 
Guess-work they guess'd it, but the golden guess 
Is morning-star to the full round of truth. 
No guess-work ! I was certain of my goal ; 
Some thought it heresy, but that would not hold. 
King David 8 calFd the heavens a hide, a tent 
Spread over earth, and so this earth was flat : 
Some cited old Lactantius : 7 could it be 
That trees grew downward, rain fell upward, men 
Walked like the fly on ceilings ? and besides, 

1 reference to the wild stories told of the 6 the Psalmist and warrior, King of Israel, 
terrors of the Atlantic. T Christian father of high repute, who 

2 Isabella. 3 reward. flourished in the early part of the fourth 
* famous old university city of Spain. century. 

B theories of the formation of the universe. 



72 Columbus. 

The great Augustine ' wrote that none could breathe 

Within the zone of heat ; so might there be 

Two Adams, two mankinds, and that was clean 

Against God's word : thus was I beaten back, 

And chiefly to my sorrow by the Church, 

And thought to turn my face from Spain, appeal 

Once more to France or England ; but our Queen 

BecalFd me, for at last their Highnesses 

Were half-assured this earth might be a sphere. 

All glory to the all-blessed Trinity, 
All glory to the mother of our Lord, 
And Holy Church, from whom I never swerved 
Not even by one hair's-breadth of heresy, 
I have accomplished what I came to do. 

Not yet — not all — last night a dream — I saiPd 
On my first voyage, harass'd by the frights 
Of my first crew, their curses and their groans. 
The great flame-banner borne by Teneriffe,'"' 
The compass, like an old friend false at last 
In our most need, appall'd them, and the wind 
Still westward, and the weedy seas — at length 
The landbird, and the branch with berries on it, 
The carven staff — and last the light, the light 
On Guanahani ! 3 but I changed the name ; 
San Salvador I calPd it ; and the light 
Grew as I gazed, and brought out a broad sky 
Of dawning over — not those alien palms, 
The marvel of that fair new nature — not 
That Indian isle, but our most ancient East 
Moriah * with Jerusalem ; and I saw 

1 most illustrious Latin father of the 3 an island of the Bahamas ; first land 

Church, living in northern Africa. He died discovered by Columbus in the New World. 

a.d. 430. 4 bill in Jerusalem upon which the temple 

3 the peak of Teneriffe ; the famous vol- was built, 
cano of the Canary Islands, now dormant. 



COLUMBUS. 73 

The glory of the Lord flash up, and beat 

Thro' all the homely town from jasper, sapphire, 

Chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius, 

Chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, 

Jacynth, and amethyst — and those twelve gates, 1 

Pearl — and I woke, and thought — death — I shall die — 

I am written in the Lamb's own Book of Life 

To walk within the glory of the Lord 

Sunless and moonless, utter light — but no ! 

The Lord had sent this bright, strange dream to me 

To mind me of the secret vow I made 

When Spain was waging war against the Moor 2 — 

I strove myself with Spain against the Moor. 

There came two voices from the Sepulchre, 

Two friars crying that if Spain should oust 

The Moslem from her limit, he, the fierce 

Soldan of Egypt, would break down and raze 

The blessed tomb of Christ ; whereon I vow'd 

That, if our Princes harken'd to my prayer, 

Whatever wealth I brought from that new world 

Should, in this old, be consecrate to lead 

A new crusade against the Saracen, 3 

And free the Holy Sepulchre 4 from thrall. B 

Gold ? I had brought your Princes gold enough 
If left alone ! Being but a Genovese, 
I am handled worse than had I been a Moor, 
And breach'd the belting wall of Cambalu, 6 
And given the Great Khan's 7 palaces to the Moor, 
Or clutch'd the sacred crown of Prester John, 8 

1 Rev. xxi. 21. 7 chief of Tartars, supposed to be con- 

2 Mohammedan occupants of Spain. verted by Prester John. 

3 Mohammedan. 4 burial place of Jesus. 8 (Presbyter John); name given in the 
6 control by the Saracens. middle ages to a supposed Christian sov- 
6 name given by Marco Polo to Peking, ereign and priest of an empire in the interior 

China. of Asia. 



74 COLUMBUS. 

And cast it to the Moor : but had I brought 

From Solomon's now-recovered Ophir ' all 

The gold that Solomon's navies carried home, 

Would that have gilded me ? Blue blood of Spain, 

Tho' quartering your own royal arms of Spain, 

I have not : blue blood and black blood of Spain, 

The noble and the convict of Castile, 

HowPd me from Hispaniola ; 2 for you know 

The flies at home, that ever swarm about 

And cloud the highest heads, and murmur down 

Truth in the distance — these outbuzz'd me so 

That even our prudent king, our righteous queen — 

I pray'd them being so calumniated 3 

They would commission one of weight and worth 

To judge between my slander'd self and me — 

■Fonseca 4 my main enemy at their court, 

They send me out his tool, Bovadilla, 5 one 

As ignorant and impolitic as a beast — 

Blockish irreverence, brainless greed — who sack'd 

My dwelling, seized upon my papers, loosed 

My captives, feed ° the rebels of the crown, 

Sold the crown-farms for all but nothing, gave 

All but free leave for all to work the mines, 

Drove me and my good brothers home in chains, 

And gathering ruthless gold — a single piece 

Weigh'd nigh four thousand Castillanos 7 — so 

They tell me — weigh'd him down into the abysm 8 — 

The hurricane of the latitude on him fell, 

The seas of our discovering over-roll 

1 region frequently mentioned in the Old 4 a bigoted Spanish prelate who opposed 
Testament, from which the ships of Solo- the enterprise of Columbus, and treated him 
mon brought gold, precious stones, etc. with persistent malignity. 

Where it was, whether in India, Arabia, or 6 sent out in 1500 to ascertain the condi- 
on the east coast of Africa, is uncertain. tion of the colony at San Domingo under 

2 "little Spain ; " name given to Haiti in Columbus. 8 bribed. 

West Indies. 7 an ancient Spanish coin of small value. 

3 falsely accused. 8 bottomless depth. 



COLUMBUS. 75 

Him and his gold ; the frailer caravel, 1 

With what was mine, came happily to the shore. 

There was a glimmering of God's hand 

And God 
Hath more than glimmer'd on me. my lord, 
I swear to you I heard his voice between 
The thunders in the black Veragua 8 nights, 
" soul of little faith, slow to believe ! 
Have I not been about thee from thy birth ? 
Given thee the keys of the great Ocean-sea ? 
Set thee in light till time shall be no more ? 
Is it I who have deceived thee or the world ? 
Endure ! thou hast done so well for men, that men 
Cry out against thee : was it otherwise 
With mine own Son ? " 

And more than once in days 
Of doubt and cloud and storm, when drowning hope 
Sank all but out of sight, I heard his voice, 
" Be not cast down. I lead thee by the hand, 
Eear not." And I shall hear his voice again — 
I know that he has led me all my life, 
I am not yet too old to work his will — 
His voice again. 

Still for all that, my lord, 
I lying here bedridden and alone, 
Cast off, put by, scouted by court and king — 
The first discoverer starves — his followers, all 
Flower into fortune — our world's way — and I, 
Without a roof that I can call mine own, 
With scarce a coin to buy a meal withal, 
And seeing what a door for scoundrel scum 

1 sailing vessel, used by the Spanish and * a region in the western part of the Isth- 
Portuguese in the time of Columbus. mus of Panama, named by Columbus. 



76 COLUMBUS. 

I open'd to the West, thro' which the lust, 

Villany, violence, avarice, of your Spain 

Pour'd in on all those happy naked isles — 

Their kindly native princes slain or slaved, 

Their wives and children Spanish concubines, 

Their innocent hospitalities quench'd in blood, 

Some dead of hunger, and some beneath the scourge, 

Some over-labor'd, some by their own hands, — 

Yea, the dear mothers, crazing Nature, kill 

Their babies at the breast for hate of Spain — 

Ah God, the harmless people whom we found 

In Hispaniola's island-Paradise ! 

Who took us for the very Gods from Heaven, 

And we have sent them very fiends from Hell ; 

And I myself, myself not blameless, I 

Could sometimes Avish I had never led the way. 

Only the ghost of our great Catholic Queen 
Smiles on me, saying, " Be thou comforted ! 
This creedless people will be brought to Christ 
And own the holy governance of Rome." 

But who could dream that we, who bore the Cross 
Thither, were excommunicated : there, 
For curbing crimes that scandalized the Cross, 
By him, the Catalonian Minorite, 2 
Rome's Vicar in our Indies ? who believe 
These hard memorials of our truth to Spain 
Clung closer to us for a longer term 
Than any friend of ours at Court ? and yet 
Pardon — too harsh, unjust. I am rack'd with pains. 

You see that I have hung them by my bed, 
And I will have them buried in my grave. 

1 expelled from the communion of the 2 memher of the mendicant order of 
Church. Franciscan Friars. 



COLUMBUS. 77 

Sir, in that flight of ages which are G-ocPs 
Own voice to justify the dead — perchance 
Spain once the most chivalric race on earth, 
Spain then the mightiest, wealthiest realm on earth, 
So made by me, may seek to unbury me, 
To lay me in some shrine of this old Spain, 
Or in that vaster Spain I leave to Spain. 
Then some one standing by my grave will say, 
" Behold the bones of Christopher Colon '*■ — 
" Ay, but the chains, what do they mean — the chains? " 
I sorrow for that kindly child of Spain 
Who then will have to answer, " These same chains 
Bound these same bones back thro' the Atlantic sea, 
Which he unchain'd for all the world to come." 

Queen of Heaven who seest the souls in Hell 
And purgatory, I suffer all as much 
As they do — for the moment. Stay, my son 
Is here anon : my son will speak for me 
Abler than I can in these spasms that grind 
Bone against bone. You will not. One, last word. 

You move about the. Court, I pray you tell 
King Ferdinand who plays with me, that one, 
Whose life has been no play with him and his 
Hidalgos 1 — shipwrecks, famines, fevers, fights, 
Mutinies, treacheries — winked at, and condoned — 
That I am loyal to him till the death, 
And ready — tho' our Holy Catholic Queen, 
Who fain had pledged her jewels on my first voyage, 
Whose hope was mine to spread the Catholic faith, 
Who wept with me when I returned in chains, 
Who sits beside the blessed Virgin now, 
To whom I send my prayer by night and day — 



78 THE MAY QUEEN. 

She is gone — but you will tell the King, that I, 
Kack'd as I am with gout, and wrench'd with pains 
Gain'd in the service of His Highness, yet 
Am ready to sail forth on one last voyage, 
And readier, if the King would hear, to lead 
One last crusade against the Saracen, 
And save the Holy Sepulchre from tfhrall. 

Going ? I am old and slighted : you have dared 
Somewhat perhaps in coming ? my poor thanks ! 
I am but an alien and a Genovese. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year ; 
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day ; 
Eor I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, Fm to be Queen o' 
the May. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright 

as mine ; 
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 
So I'm to be • Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 

the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands 

gay, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
the May. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 79 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yester- 
day, 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? 
There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
the May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen : 
For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, 

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo- 
flowers ; 

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and 
hollows gray, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 
the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow- 



80 THE MAY QUEEN. 

And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they 

pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong 

day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 

the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and 

play, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 

the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother 

dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' 

the May. 



NEW-YEAK'S EVE. 

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, 
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 
Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of 
me. 

To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 

The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of 

mind ; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The blossoms on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 81 

Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had. a merry day; 

Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of 
May; 

And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse/ 

Till Charles's Wain 2 came out above the tall white chimney- 
tops. 

There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snow-drops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the 

wave, 
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning 

light 
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold 3 the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the 

pool. 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly 

laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when yon pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 

1 coppice ; thicket of bushes or small trees. 

2 seven principal stars in the constellation of Ursa Major ; also called the Great Dipper. 

3 wood ; forest. 



82 THE MAY QUEEN. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say, 
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for- 

evermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door ; 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing 

green : 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : 
Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set 
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 



CONCLUSION. 

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 

And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's her* 



THE MAY QUEEN. 83 

sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of 
peace. 

blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 

A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me 

in : 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning 

meet : 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began the roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 



84 THE MAY QUEEN. 

With all my strength I pray'd for both, arid so I felt resigned, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed, 

And then did something speak to me — I know not what was 

said ; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping ; and I said, " It's not for them : it's 

mine." 
And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the 

stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 

And say to Eobin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; 
There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may 

shine — 
"Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 



DORA. 85 

Forever and forever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such 
ado ? 

Forever and forever, all in a blessed home — 
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — 
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at 
rest. 

DORA. 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 

William and Dora. William was his son, 

And she his niece. He often look'd at them, 

And often thought, " Fll make them man and wife." 

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 

And yearned towards William ; but the youth, because 

He had been always with her in the house, 

Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, " My son : 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die : 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
. She is my brother's daughter : he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora : take her for your wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, 
For many years." But William answered short : 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : 



86 DORA. 

" You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! 
But in my time my father's word was law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it ; 
Consider, William : take a month to think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 
And never more darken my doors again." 
But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips, 
And broke away. The more he looked at her 
The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd 
His niece and said : " My girl, I love you well ; 
But if you speak with him that was my son, 
Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
" It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change ! " 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. 
But Dora stored what little she could save, 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 
" I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me 



DORA. 87 

This evil came on William at the first. 

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 

And for your sake, the woman that he chose, 

And for this orphan, I am come to you : 

You know there has not been for these five years 

So full a harvest : let me take the boy. 

And I will set him in my uncle's eye 

Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad 

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." 

And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 
But her heart f ail'd her ; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work, 
And came and said : " Where were you yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ? What are you doing here ? " 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
And answer'd softly, "This is William's child \" 
" And did I not," said Allan, ' ' did I not 
Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again : 
"Do with me as you will, but take the child, 
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone ! " 
And Allan said, ' ' I see it is a trick 



88 DORA. 

Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 
To slight it. Well— for I will take the boy ; 
But you go hence, and never see me more." 

So saying, he took the boy that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field, 
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, 
Bemembering the day when first she came, 
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down, 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you : 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never be, 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself : 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother ; therefore thou and I will go, 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home ; 
And I will beg of him to take thee back : 
But if he will not take thee back again, 
Then thou and I will live within one house, 
And work for William's child, until he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw 



DORA. 89 

The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, 
Like one that loved him : and the lad stretched out 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in: but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her: 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said: 

" Father ! — if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself, 
Or William, or this child; but now I come 
For Dora: take her back; she loves you well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, 
He could not ever rue his marrying me — 

1 had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 

1 God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may he never know 
The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then he turned 
His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! 
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 
His father's memory; and take Dora back, 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room; 
And all at once the old man burst in sobs: — 

1 ' I have been to blame — to blame. I have killed my 
son. 
I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my dear son. 
May G-od forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children." 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. 



90 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

And all the man was broken with remorse; 
And all his love came back a hundred-fold; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child 
Thinking of William. 

• So those four abode 
Within one house together; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 1 



Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 

Charge for the guns," he said : 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 



" Forward, the Light Brigade I" 
Was there a man dismay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blunder'd : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

1 the poem celebrates the famous cavalry charge of the British at the battle of Balak- 
lava, in the Crimean War, October 25, 1854. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 91 



Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Kode the six hundred. 

Mash'd all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 

All the world wonder'd : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right thro' the line they broke 
Cossack 1 and Russian 
Reel'd from the sabre- stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not, 

Not the six hundred. 



V. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 

1 The Cossacks are tribes of southern and southeastern Russia, serving as cavalry i 
Russian national army. 



92 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro* the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 



When can their glory fade ? 
the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred ! 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 



Lucknow, the capital of the province of Oudh, and the fourth largest city in British 
India, is about 600 miles northwest of Calcutta. In May, 1857, there was a mutiny of the 
Sepoys, or native soldiery. The foresight of Sir Henry Lawrence, the British officer in 
command at Lucknow, had fortified and garrisoned the Residency. An attempt to 
check the advance of the enemy was defeated, and the British were besieged for three 
months. Three times in succession the little garrison beat back the assaults of the 
enemy. They were relieved by Havelock and Outram September 25th, only to be again 
surrounded and besieged. They were finally relieved by Sir Colin Campbell November 
17th. 

This poem enshrines the gallant defence in splendid verse. 



Banner of England, not for a season, banner of Britain, 

hast thou 
Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry ! 
Never with mightier glory than when we had rear'd thee on 

high 
Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of Lucknow — 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 93 

Shot thro' the staff or the halyard/ but ever we raised thee 

anew, 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. 



Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held 

with our lives — 
Women and children among us, God help them, our children 

and wives ! 
Hold it we might — and for fifteen days or for twenty at most. 
" Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his 

post!" 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the best of 

the brave : 
dold were his brows when we kiss'd him — we laid him that 

night in his grave. 
" Every man die at his post ! " and there hail'd on our houses 

and halls 
Death from their rifle-bullets, and death from their cannon- 
balls, 
Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight 

barricade, 2 
Death while we stood with the musket, and death while we 

stoopt to the spade, 
Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often 

there fell, 
Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro' it, their shot and 

their shell, 
Death — for their spies were among us, their marksmen were 

told of our best, 
So that the brute bullet broke thro' the brain that could 

think for the rest ; 

1 rope for hoisting and lowering a flag. 
a defensive fortification to cheek an enemy. 



94 THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 

Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain 

at our feet — 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us 

round — 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a 

street, 
Death from the heights of the mosque ' and the palace, and 

death in the ground ! 
Mine? yes, a mine ! 2 Countermine ! 3 down, down ! and creep 

thro' the hole ! 
Keep the revolver in hand ! you can hear him — the murder- 
ous mole ! 
Quiet, ah ! quiet — wait till the point of the pickaxe be thro' ! 
Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than 

before — 
Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no more ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew ! 



Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced 

on a day 
Soon as the blast of that underground thunderclap echo'd 

away, 
Dark thro' the smoke and the sulphur like so many fiends in 

their hell — 
Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon yell — 
Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemy fell. 
What have they done ? where is it ? Out yonder. Guard 

the Redan ! 
Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the Bailey-gate ! storm, 

and it ran 

1 Mohammedan temple of worship. 

2 a pit and gallery sunk in the earth, in the attack or defence of a fortified place, in order 
to blow up the works of an enemy, is called a mine. 

3 one dug to destroy a mine is called a countermine. 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 95 

Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side 
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drown'd by the 

tide — 
So many thousands that if they be bold enough, who shall 

escape ? 
Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers 

and men ! 
Eeady ! take aim at their leaders — their masses are gapp'd 

with our grape — 
Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging 

forward again, 
Flying and foiPd at the last by the handful they could not 

subdue ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. 



Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and in 

limb, 
Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to 

endure, 
Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on him; 
Still — could we watch at all points ? we were every day fewer 

and fewer. 
There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that past; 
" Children and wives — if the tigers leap into the fold 

unawares — 
Every man die at his post — and the foe may outlive us at 

last — 
Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into 

theirs ! " 
Koar upon roar in a moment two mines by the enemy sprung 
Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades. 1 
Eifleman, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be as 

true ! 

1 fortification consisting of a row of strong stakes or posts set firmly in the ground. 



96 THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 

Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank fusil- 
lades ' — 

Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which 
they had clung, 

Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with 
hand-grenades ; a 

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew. 



Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out- 
tore 
Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or more. 
Kifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of 

the sun — 
One has leapt up on the breach, crying out : " Follow me, 

follow me ! " — 
Mark him — he falls ! then another, and him too, and down 

goes he. 
Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but the traitors 

had won ? 
Boardings and rafters and doors — an embrasure ! 3 make way 

for the gun ! 
Now double-charge it with grape ! 4 It is charged and we fire, 

and they run. 
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his 

due ! 
Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful 

and few, 
Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and 

smote them, and slew, 
That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew. 

1 Simultaneous discharges of firearms on the flanks or sides. 

2 hollow balls of iron or other metal filled 3 opening in a wall or parapet for a cannon 
with powder, to be thrown from the hand to fire through. 

amidst an enemy, when ignited by means of * cluster of iron balls loosely held together, 
a fuse. to be discharged from a cannon. 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCOTOW. 97 



VI. 

Men will forget what we suffer and not what we do. We can 

fight; _ 
But to be soldier all day and be sentinel all thro' the night — 
Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying alarms, 
Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and sound- 
ings to arms, 
Ever the labor of fifty that had to be done by five, 
Ever the marvel among us that one should be left alive, 
Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loopholes 

around, 
Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be laid in the 

ground, 
Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract skies, 
Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite torment of flies, 
Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an English 

field, 
Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be 

heaPd, 
Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful-pitiless knife, — 
Torture and trouble in vain, — for it never could save us a 

life. 
Valor of delicate women who tended the hospital bed, 
Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead, 
Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for 

grief, 
Toil and ineffable l weariness, faltering hopes of relief, 
Havel ock baffled, or beaten, or butcher'd for all that we knew — 
Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the 

still-shatter' d walls 
Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls — 
But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England 

blew. 

' unspeakable. 



LADY CLARE. 



Hark cannonade, fusillade ! is it true what was told by the 

scout, 
Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell 

mutineers ? 
Surely the pibroch ' of Europe is ringing again in our 

ears ! 
All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout, 
Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer with conquering 

cheers, 
Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children come 

out, 
Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good 

fusileers, 
Kissing the war-hardened hand of the Highlander wet with 

their tears ! 
Dance to the pibroch ! — saved ! we are saved ! — is it you ? is 

it you ? 
Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved by the blessing of 

Heaven ! 
" Hold it for fifteen days ! " we have held held it for eighty- 
seven ! 
And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England 

blew. 



LADY CLARE. 

It was the time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

1 wild species of music peculiar to the Highlands of Scotland. 



LADY CLAEE. 99 

I trow they did not part in scorn : 

Lovers long-betrothed were they : 
They too will wed the morrow morn : 

God's blessing on the day ! 

" He does not love me for my birth, 

Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 
He loves me for my own true worth, 

And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 

Said, " Who was this that went from thee ?" 

" It was my cousin/' said Lady Clare, 
" To-morrow he weds with me." 

" God be thank'd ! " said Alice the nurse, 
" That all comes round so just and fair : 

Lord Eonald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

" Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? " 
Said Lady Clare, ' ' that ye speak so wild ? " 

" As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 
" I speak the truth : you are my child. 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

" mother," she said, " if this be true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 



100 LADY CLARE. 

" Nay now, my child/' said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life, 

And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife." 

" If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I .will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret all ye can." 

She said, " Not so : but I will know 
If there be any faith in man." 

" Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nurse, 
"The man will cleave unto his right." 

" And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
" Tho' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 

Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
" mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so, 
And lay your hand upon my head, 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 
She Avas no longer Lady Clare : 

She went by dale, and she went by down, 
"With a single rose in her hair. . . 



LADY CLAKE. 101 

The lily- white doe Lord Eonald had brought 

Lept up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And followed her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Eonald from his tower : 
" Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! 

"Why come you drest like a village maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ? " 

" If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born," she said, 

" And not the Lady Clare." 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" For I am yours in word and in deed. 

Play me no tricks," said Lord Eonald, 
"Your riddle is hard to read." 

and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She looked into Lord Eonald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : 
He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood i 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, " the next in blood — 

" If you are not the heiress born, 

And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 
We two will wed to-morrow morn, 

And you shall still be Lady Clare." 



102 THE BROOK. 



BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

well for the fisherman's boy, 
That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

well for the sailor lad, 
That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill ; 

But for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE BROOK. 

I come from haunts of coot l and hern/ 

I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker 3 down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 
By twenty thorps, 4 a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 

1 short-tailed water fowl. 3 run swiftly with a babbling sound. 

a heron; a wading bird with long legs. * hamlets ; villages. 



THE BEOOK. 103 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for eyer. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow. 
And many a fairy foreland * set 

With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

I wind about, and in and out, 

With here a blossom sailing, 
And here and there a lusty trout, 

And here and there a grayling, 2 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

1 projecting point of land ; cape. 

1 fish of the salmon family, having back and sides of a silvery-gray color. 



104 BUGLE SONG. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
I slide by hazel covers ; 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows ; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses ; 

I linger by my shingly bars ; 1 
I loiter round my cresses ; 2 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I so on for ever. 



BUGLE SONG. 3 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

hark, hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 

sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 

1 shallow places of gravel and pebbles. 3 This and the two following lyrical selec- 

2 wateicresses, growing in the water. tions are from " The Princess." 



WIDOW AND CHILD. 105 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river : 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 



WIDOW AND CHILD. 

Home they brought her warrior dead 
She nor swooned, nor utterM cry : 

All her maidens, watching, said, 
"She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call'd him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior stept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears- 
" Sweet my child, I live for thee." 



106 I ENVY NOT. 



THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. 

" Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Antumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

" Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

" Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

" Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
Death in Life, the days that are no more." 



I ENVY NOT. 1 

I envy not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage, 
The linnet born within the cage, 

That never knew the summer woods : 

1 This and the two following selections are from " In Memoriam," that elegiac treasury 
in which the poet has stored the grief and meditation of many years after the death of 
his friend Arthur Hallam ; a series of pathetic, melodious lyrics, remarkable for range 
of thought and depth of feeling. 



OH YET WE TEUST. 107 

I envy not the beast that takes 

His license in the field of time, 

Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 
To whom a conscience never wakes ; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted troth 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most ; 

'Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 



OH YET WE TRUST. 

Oh yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill, 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
That not one life shall be destroyed, 
Or cast as rubbish to the void, 

When God hath made the pile complete 5 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivelFd in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything ; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off — at last, to all, 

And every winter change to spring. 



108 RING OUT, WILD BELLS. 

So runs my dream : but what am I ? 
An infant crying in the night : 
An infant crying for the light : 

And with no language but a cry. 

The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyond the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil dreams ? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 



RING OUT, WILD BELLS. 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 



RING OUT, WILD BELLS. 109 

King out the old, ring in the new, 
Eing, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Eing out the false, ring in the true. 

Eing out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Eing out the feud of rich and poor, 

Eing in redress to all mankind. 

Eing out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Eing in the nobler modes of life, 

"With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Eing out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times ; 
Eing out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Eing out false pride in place and blood, 

The civic slander and the spite ; 

Eing in the love of truth and right, 
Eing in the common love of good. 

Eing out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Eing out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Eing out the thousand wars of old, 
Eing in the thousand years of peace. 

Eing in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Eing out the darkness of the land, 

Eing in the Christ that is to be. 



110 CROSSING THE BAR 



CROSSING THE BAR. 

Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me ! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark ! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark ; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crost the bar. 



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